


Twoddle

by R00bs_Teacup



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Cuddling & Snuggling, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-30
Updated: 2016-12-30
Packaged: 2018-09-13 11:40:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,430
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9121960
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/R00bs_Teacup/pseuds/R00bs_Teacup
Summary: Merlin and Arthur being in love and Arthur being snuggly and there's cuddling and sentimental I dunno. And chicken pasta.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [glim](https://archiveofourown.org/users/glim/gifts).



Going home is Arthur’s favourite thing in the wide world. Home, where Merlin’s shoes are kicked off, a trail of winter things down the hall, dinner cooking in the kitchen or take out keeping warm, incense and food and burning wood. Home where Arthur can lean on the door and shut his eyes and breathe, quietly take his outdoors things off and slip into the kitchen to see what’s good. It’s Merlin sprawled in front of the fire, feet up on the radiator. The armchair positioned to get all the heat, side to the grate, right near the wall and the radiator and the fire. Merlin with his book, or his kindle with audible, or some marking. Home is everything Merlin does, everything he is, and most of all it’s him being there, turning his head and smiling welcome, holding out a hand. 

Arthur straightens from leaning in the doorway and goes over, kneeling, hand resting on Merlin’s knee where it’s crooked. Merlin touches his cheek, then cradles his head when Arthur leans into it. He’s still smiling, and Arthur looks up into his eyes, into his dear face, his beautiful welcoming warm expression. Merlin’s eyebrow quirks, and his lips twitch, laughter contained but barely. He always has found Arthur’s more intense tenderness amusing. He promises he’s not laughing at Arthur, but it’s still hard to bare sometimes, which Merlin knows. His expression softens when Arthur leans a little more, rubbing Merlin’s knee. He makes a humming, questioning sound, thrumming through him, and puts his book aside (Good Omens, today), using his other hand to caress Arthur’s forehead, brushing his hair out of his face. 

“I want to be a gentle person, Merlin,” Arthur says, and is horrified by the ache and tremble in his voice. He ducks his head, resting his forehead on the arm of the chair, away from Merlin’s hands. Merlin strokes his hair and makes a very soft sound. “Everything escapes me, and I can’t make myself kind.”

“You are the kindest man I know,” Merlin says, firmly. “Perhaps not always gentle, but you can be that, too. Such careful gentleness, when people need it. Kneeling before me and holding my hands until I can breathe, softening and softening your questions until the victims of your cases can answer, taking people on the stand through such trauma, gentling them and giving them kindnesses until they can speak.”

“I want to be that,” Arthur says. Then he sighs. “This is not a kind case.”

“They can’t all be kind. You don’t choose your cases. Did you check dinner, on your way in?” 

“Mm. Ten minutes,” Arthur says. “Go on, go back to your book. I’m just going to stay here.”

Merlin snorts, but leaves him where he is. Arthur feels a hand in his hair, and smiles. Merlin rubs slow, soothing circles into his scalp, idle, unthinking, soft things that have Arthur’s shoulders giving up their tense knots and aching places. Merlin’s hand moves down to his neck as he relaxes, releasing more tension, easing the headache pounding behind Arthur’s eyes. After ten minutes he puts a bookmark in the Pratchett, and gets up. Arthur stays, head bowed against the chair, ridiculous on his knees in an empty living-room. Merlin comes back with plates of food and Arthur’s still there, in his little paralysed shape of supplication. 

“Dinner,” Merlin says, lightly.

Arthur hears him setting everything on the table at the other end of the room. Then he adds a log to the fire, which crackles. Merlin curses, and there’s the rustle of paper, then the whoosh of the fire going up, Merlin holding the newspaper across the grate. Merlin swears again and stamps a bit.

“Did you set fire to the carpet, this time?” Arthur asks. 

“No, just the newspaper,” Merlin says. “You could have done it, mr health and safety.”

Arthur snorts. Only Merlin would reduce ‘nearly setting the house on fire’ to ‘Arthur being absurd about safety’. The fondness of that uncurls Arthur, and he gets to his feet. Merlin’s examining the carpet, toeing at a black smudge. He glances up at Arthur with a guilty expression, then grins, shameless. 

“Just a spark,” he says. 

Arthur goes to examine the spot. It’s just a smudge of ash, but he pretends to look closer, pressing up against Merlin’s back, wrapping arms around him, getting his hands under Merlin’s clothes against his skin, pressing his face into Merlin’s neck. 

“What are you doing you nutter? It’s dinner time,” Merlin says, giggling and twitching, ticklish. 

“I’ll have you for dinner,” Arthur says, licking Merlin’s neck. “Yum.”

Merlin laughs, leaning back into Arthur, so Arthur scoops him up and carries him to the table, sitting with Merlin in his lap. Merlin wriggles and escapes, taking his own seat. He shuffles his chair close to Arthur though. They’ve got it the wrong way around, like they always seem to, and their elbows knock as they eat, Merlin’s left handed hold on his fork disrupting Arthur’s graceful right handedness. Every time it happens Merlin’s lips twitch. Arthur’s pretty sure Merlin arranges the table this way on purpose, because he likes bumping elbows. Arthur doesn’t mind, he quite likes it himself. It’s a gentle kind of contact, of teasing, or remembering each other. Remembering the times they’ve teased each other about it, or fought over desk-space, or Arthur’s got on at Merlin about left handed being of the devil, or Merlin’s got on Arthur about right handed being plain and ordinary. There’s lots of stories and feelings that spark with each bump. 

“It’s good,” Arthur says, halfway through, finally noticing that he’s eating pasta and chicken with pestoish sauce, which is his favourite. “Thank you.”

“Knew today hadn’t been easy. You texted me at lunch time,” Merlin says. 

“... I reminded you to get milk?” Arthur points out. 

“At lunch time,” Merlin returns. 

Which is fair enough. Arthur never texts during the work day unless he’s really frustrated. He wrinkles his nose and gives Merlin a sheepish smile. Merlin kisses his nose. 

“Anyway, I missed you today,” Merlin says. 

“Why?” Arthur asks. “What was different today?”

“Nothing, nothing special. Just missed your company,” Merlin says, shrugging. 

Arthur flushes a little, pleased. He ducks his head and concentrates on his food, but he reaches over with his left hand and rests it on Merlin’s thigh. Merlin reaches out with his right and takes it, and they eat one handed, elbows bumping, twisted awkwardly to hold hands across their bodies. Arthur laughs, dropping chicken from his fork, and lunges over to press silly kisses to Merlin’s ear and neck, letting go his hand. 

“Get off, I’m hungry,” Merlin says. “Dinner.”

“M’havin’ you,” Arthur mumbles, nuzzling into Merlin’s hair. “Not hungry f’r chicks.”

“You love chicken pasta.”

“I do,” Arthur agrees. “I’m conflicted now. I want chicken pasta.”

Merlin laughs and Arthur sits up so he can watch that. Merlin’s really lovely when he laughs. It’s so nice to have him like this, last Friday of term, all ready for break and relaxed and so happy. Arthur sighs a little blissfully and puts his hands either side of Merlin’s face, cupping, turning and guiding him so they can kiss. Merlin tastes like pasta and pesto and chicken, and it’s fantastic, and Arthur wants to just be here like this forever. Home with Merlin. 

“Home is you,” Arthur says, pulling away and resting their foreheads together. “You and chicken pasta.”

“That was so close to being actually romantic,” Merlin says, pressing a quick kiss to Arthur’s top lip. “Let me eat, you hooligan.”

“Hooligan,” Arthur repeats, drawing out the first sound. “Say it again, I like the way you say it.”

“Arthur!”

Arthur laughs and leaves Merlin alone, turning to finish his pasta. He eats left handed, and keeps hold of Merlin’s thigh. Merlin rolls his eyes, but doesn’t protest. Arthur eats as quick as he can, then chivvies Merlin along so they can go to the sofa, and Arthur can sprawl on his back, Merlin fitting into all the spaces of him. Merlin’s head tucks into the space made perfect for him, and Arthur breathes deeply, Merlin rising and falling with it, tangled all together. Entwined. Arthur feels gentle, here, like this. So unbearably tender of Merlin, determined to keep him wrapped like this in Arthur’s arms, so safe and content. So unbearably fond and happy of the man. 

“Yeeesh, Merls, how much do I love you, hey?” Arthur mutters, into Merlin’s hair. “All of every single tiny lovely particle of you.”

“Mmmm,” Merlin agrees.


End file.
